Families Break Up When They Get Hints

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

Not Yesterday I Learned To Know The Love Of Bare November Days Before The Coming Of The Snow.

The Poet, As Everyone Knows, Must Strike His Individual Note Sometime Between The Ages Of Fifteen And Twenty-five. He May Hold It A Long Time, Or A Short Time, But It Is Then That He Must Strike It Or Never. School And College Have Been Conducted With The Almost Express Purpose Of Keeping Him Busy With Something Else Till The Danger Of His Ever Creating Anything Is Past.

We Love The Things We Love For What They Are.

The City Is All Right. To Live In One Is To Be Civilized, Stay Up And Read Or Sing And Dance All Night And See Sunrise By Waiting Up Instead Of Getting Up.